Wife to a Stranger

by Clair, Daphne

  Rolfe looked at her with a surprised grin. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Well…most of us don’t always live up to what our mothers taught us.’ Reminded, she added, ‘Shouldn’t I phone her, by the way—my mother? What’s the time in Los Angeles?’

  ‘Too early. Wait a few hours and then you won’t be getting her out of bed.’

  ‘You said you didn’t know where my father was. Would my mother know?’

  ‘I doubt it. I gather she wanted nothing more to do with him after the divorce.’ He gave her one of his searching looks. ‘You haven’t remembered any more?’

  ‘No. I remembered my sister and my parents when I saw their picture. Maybe if I looked at some more photographs—are there some about?’

  ‘There are albums on the bookshelves in the living room.’

  ‘I’ll get them out later.’ She crossed to the sink to rinse out the cloth she’d used to wipe up the toast crumbs. Her eye was caught by the bougainvillaea on the wall that divided the section from the road. Although it was only just unfurling its leaves, in her mind she could clearly see it in all its summer splendour, smothered in purple. ‘It’s a lovely garden.’ The hibiscus were already bearing a few open scarlet blooms, and a brilliant orange-flaming tropical rhododendron flamed against the white wall. ‘Did we plant it ourselves? Who looks after it?’

  ‘We got a landscape designer in, and his staff did the planting. And we have a guy who mows the lawn every week and trims shrubs when they need it. It’s lowmaintenance—no flowerbeds, just shrubs.’

  The black wrought-iron gate in the white wall opened, and a plump, dark-haired young woman entered.

  ‘Is that Hallie?’ Capri asked.

  ‘Yes, her name’s Hallie Switzer.’

  He opened the door himself, and the young woman came in. ‘Morning, Mr Massey. Mrs Massey—you’re home! I heard you were in that terrible train crash in Aussie. Are you all right?’

  Rolfe answered for her. ‘My wife had concussion and it’s temporarily affected her memory, Hallie, so don’t be surprised if she doesn’t remember things she would have known before.’

  Hallie looked at Capri with curiosity. ‘That’s rough—I’m really sorry.’

  ‘I have to go now,’ Rolfe said, ‘but call me, Hallie, if you have any reason to be concerned. She only came out of hospital yesterday.’

  ‘Sure thing. You take it easy, Mrs Massey. I’ll try not to disturb you.’

  ‘I’ve left some money on my desk for you,’ Rolfe told the woman. ‘I hope to be back early this afternoon,’ he added to Capri. ‘So you won’t be on your own for long after Hallie’s finished. Don’t leave the house, will you?’

  ‘Rolfe, the doctors wouldn’t have let me come home if—’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Humour me, okay? I’ll phone to check after Hallie’s gone, make sure you’re okay.’ His hand cupped her cheek while he gave her a brief kiss.

  When he’d left she wandered into the living room while Hallie busied herself in the kitchen.

  A framed photograph stood among the books and the few well-placed ceramic art pieces on a set of shelves above the entertainment centre—the same wedding picture of Capri and Rolfe that had been in the folder in her bag. She studied it, then hunted out the photograph albums he’d spoken of.

  There were childhood pictures of her with and without her sister, a few photos of her parents, and many of herself as she grew older, with groups of boys and girls, others with a succession of young men.

  A second album was filled with photos of her and Rolfe’s wedding. There seemed to have been a lot of people there, including her mother, and her sister Venetia as one of four bridesmaids. Venetia looked older but otherwise not much different from the photo in Capri’s bag.

  Although she pored over every face none gave her any feeling that she’d ever known them.

  A third album held cuttings from magazines as well as photographic prints. Glamour shots on glossy paper.

  Her own face smiled, pouted, looked provocatively over her shoulder or haughtily into the camera. She’d been a photographic model. Her hair was long and silkylooking, and in many of the photos her eyes looked bigger, her cheeks thinner, her mouth fuller, but there was no denying the face was hers. She guessed that makeup and photographic techniques accounted for the difference.

  Some of the captions had her name in them—Capri Rivera. Was it really her maiden name, or perhaps one that she’d only used professionally? There was no sense of connection, no faint echo of recall. A few photographs showed other women modelling clothes ‘designed by Capri Rivera’. That should make her proud. But she felt totally detached.

  Dispirited, she put aside the books and got up, wandering to the window. The hum of a vacuum cleaner came from somewhere in the house. She sighed, then turned decisively and walked along the passageway to the room where surely she had spent a lot of time.

  The sewing machine and computer must have been tools that she was accustomed to using. She touched the computer with its blank screen, found the ‘on’ switch and flicked it. The machine hummed and the screen lit up, showing a menu of choices. One item was ‘Designmate’ and she hesitated, then moved the cursor to it and pressed ‘Enter’ before sliding into the typist’s chair in front of her.

  When the program opened she stared at the options presented. Experimenting, she gleaned some idea of what the program was supposed to do—provide alternative views of fashion design elements, and help the user produce templates for garments. But her fumbling efforts were those of a total novice.

  She switched off the computer, sitting for a few minutes with her head in her hands before she straightened her shoulders and got up.

  Hallie was in the passageway, a spray can of furniture polish in one hand, a dust-cloth in the other.

  ‘Can I help with something?’ Capri asked. ‘Where were you headed with those?’

  ‘I was going to do Mr Massey’s office.’

  ‘Let me.’

  She held out her hand and Hallie gave her the cleaning things, saying doubtfully, ‘Are you sure, Mrs Massey?’

  ‘I’m sure. Hallie—how long have you been working for us?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘Don’t you think you could call me Capri?’

  Hallie’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of what she’d been going to say. ‘If you like,’ she said finally.

  ‘Thanks.’ With a grateful smile, Capri moved off.

  Aware that her insistence on doing Rolfe’s room was an excuse, she dusted shelves, wiped the wide windowledge, and straightened the piled papers on the big desk where the computer stood, glancing at letterheads as she dusted behind a tiered paper tray.

  There was nothing here to indicate the personality of the occupant except the ordered appearance of the room. Rolfe could surely lay his hands instantly on whatever file or document he needed.

  She had no watch, but an electronic clock on the desk told her it was nearly eleven. Rolfe had said that in a ‘few hours’ she could telephone her mother.

  Opening drawers, she found various pens, trays of paper clips and boxes of computer disks, an Auckland area telephone book, but no address book, no list of telephone numbers.

  A large framed photograph lay face down among the envelopes and pens in a lower drawer.

  She picked it up, turning it to find her own face smiling through the glass. Her hair was long, tumbling onto bare shoulders, and one strap of the low-cut dress she wore had slipped down her arm. Her lips were glossily reddened and her eyes bright and inviting.

  Hallie appeared in the doorway, a vacuum cleaner hose in her hand. ‘Shall I come back later?’

  Capri returned the photograph to the drawer and closed it. ‘I’ve finished in here.’

  There was a phone in the big entrance lobby, on a table with a drawer underneath that yielded a second directory with a few names and numbers scribbled in the back pages. None seemed to be preceded
by an American prefix. Nor were any of the names familiar. She realised she didn’t even know what name to look for if it wasn’t under M for mother…

  In her bedroom where yet another telephone stood on the night table there was a small leather-bound book beside it, but the alphabetical entries meant nothing to her.

  Hallie left at twelve-thirty, and fifteen minutes later the phone rang. Capri answered it in the hallway.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rolfe’s voice queried. ‘Has Hallie gone?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m fine.’

  Before she had time to ask for her mother’s phone number he was speaking again, sounding hurried. ‘I’ll be home in a couple of hours. Can you manage on your own until then?’

  ‘I’m not crippled or anything, Rolfe.’

  There was a pause and she imagined him frowning into space, drumming his fingers on a big desk like the one in his office here. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he promised. ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘No, but I’ll get myself something.’

  ‘Do. I’ll see you later.’

  She was asleep on one of the couches in the big living room when he arrived. Sensing his presence, she opened her eyes to find him standing over her.

  He said, ‘I disturbed you.’ And then, as if the huskily spoken words were wrung from him, ‘You’re very lovely, Capri.’

  She started to sit up, wondering how long he’d been there. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was reading.’ The glossy magazine had fallen to the carpet.

  He dropped to the sofa beside her, preventing her from bringing her feet to the floor. One lean hand brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek to tuck it behind her ear. ‘Stay there,’ he said.

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Shh.’ His hand slipped behind her head, and he bent towards her, his lips barely meeting hers, warm and undemanding as they brushed across hers, a fleeting touch repeated once, twice, before he drew back a couple of inches. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No.’ Her answer was a breath, a whisper.

  He smiled, then brought his mouth back to hers, this time covering it with his own, exerting the faintest pressure until her lips parted, but not taking advantage of that, keeping the kiss just on the edge of passion, definitely sexual but restrained and gently questing.

  Trustingly, she followed his lead, giving in to the gradual seduction of his mouth, letting him deepen the kiss to a hungry seeking, until he broke away, his hand still curved about her nape, and stared down at her, his eyes hot and very dark.

  She stared numbly back, hectic colour burning her cheeks, her body alight. She realised she was clinging to his sleeve, and drew her hand away.

  His eyes narrowed and he angled his head questioningly. ‘You don’t want to take this further?’

  Her tongue moistened her lower lip. It was disturbing, this depth of desire. She wasn’t even sure what she was so wary of, but knew instinctively that she ran the risk of being swept off her feet, into uncharted seas. ‘N-not now,’ she said.

  ‘What are you afraid of? It’s not like you.’

  Capri tried to smile, but her lips trembled. ‘Isn’t it? I wouldn’t know.’

  He regarded her with grave curiosity. ‘You don’t remember ever making love?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose that seems silly, when you…’

  Her voice trailed off. He knew her intimately, had done for more than two years.

  ‘No…it’s not silly,’ Rolfe said. ‘Kind of bizarre, but I find it rather intriguing. Piquant.’ His thumb moved on her skin, finding the groove behind her ear, caressing down to the junction of neck and shoulder. Then his hand fell away, picked up one of hers and held it. It was her left hand, and he ran a thumb over the third finger, his head bent.

  She looked down too, and was struck by a sudden thought. ‘What happened to my ring?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t I have a wedding ring?’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ROLFE glanced up, his eyes seeming strangely blank, almost opaque, and then returned his attention to her bare fingers. He said flatly, ‘You must have lost it in the crash.’

  ‘Would it have been loose?’

  He released her and got up. ‘You were unconscious when you were found. There will have been a lot of people about—rescuers, other passengers, and probably sightseers and opportunists. You also had a rather expensive engagement ring that may have taken someone’s fancy.’

  ‘You think my rings were stolen!’ Her skin crawled at the idea of some heartless thief taking them from her finger while she lay injured—for all they knew, dying. ‘That’s horrible!’

  ‘I’ll buy you replacements.’

  ‘That’s not the point!’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But we’ll do it all the same.’ Changing the subject, he said, ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘I went into the…my workroom and tried the computer, but I can’t even remember how to work the design program.’ She made a helpless little gesture.

  ‘Don’t force it,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what they told you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked about the coolly elegant room. ‘I thought being in familiar surroundings would help, but they’re not familiar at all. Nothing seems to belong.’ She lifted her eyes. ‘You’re the only thing that’s clear in my mind, the only thing I can…cling to.’

  Swift compassion entered his eyes. ‘Any time.’ He went down on his haunches and grasped her hand again. ‘I’m here for you, Capri. We’ll get you through this.’

  ‘You’re being very patient.’

  ‘Maybe I could have been more patient in the past. I’m doing my best.’

  ‘I know.’ Her fingers curled about his. She tried to push from her mind a frightening suspicion that he’d come for her and taken her home only because he’d been left little choice. That their marriage had been disintegrating. ‘I’m grateful,’ she told him.

  ‘You’re my wife, Capri. That means a lot to me. More than I ever realised.’

  Her head lifted and she searched his face. Surely that comment was right from his heart, not some empty reassurance. She remembered the look on his face when she’d first said she wanted to go home—and her momentary conviction that she had only to give the word and he’d have whisked her away with him there and then. The almost covetous way he sometimes stared at her, and his kisses—tender, possessive, passionate. And his frustration when she’d stopped him making love to her in the kitchen, frustration spilling over briefly into anger. She couldn’t doubt that he wanted her.

  But then, men sometimes wanted where they didn’t love. And love was more important…more lasting and true than desire on its own.

  Perhaps Rolfe sensed her doubts. He said slowly, ‘After they called for me to come to the hospital I was in some kind of limbo, unable to think, to feel…When I saw you lying there unconscious, looking so frail and still…what I felt was far too complicated to put into words. Waiting for you to wake, I ran through a lifetime of emotions, remembering everything we’d shared since the moment we met.’

  ‘You were angry,’ she remembered.

  After a tiny pause he admitted, ‘I was angry that you’d gone off on your own and got hurt, angry that I’d let you do it—that I’d driven you away, been insensitive to your needs, that I’d never realised how very insecure you were under all your sophistication and apparent self-confidence. Angry at the whole damn world and what had happened to you…to us. And I was scared for you, and saddened, remorseful…you name it. I had plenty of time to think while I watched you and waited and dreaded and hoped. And made silent promises to you—and to myself. When I turned round and you had opened your eyes at last, you looked at me with something like wonder, a sort of innocent recognition and…it was as if we were meeting for the first time all over again.’

  ‘For me too,’ she reminded him, smiling to chase away the lump in her throat. ‘But I’d like to be able to remember that first time.’

  His hand on hers tightened. �
��It’ll happen. Have you spoken to your mother?’

  ‘I don’t know the number.’

  ‘Hell!’ Closing his eyes, Rolfe shook his head. ‘I should have thought—’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Rolfe. I might have remembered, just as I remembered my birth-date and my sister’s name—and you. But I don’t. I did look—’

  ‘I have it in my electronic organiser,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t be too late.’ He stood up. ‘You can use the phone in my office.’

  The organiser was in the briefcase that now stood on his desk. He dialled the number for her and said, ‘Treena? Rolfe…Yes, she’s okay—well, almost. She’s right here…Of course you can speak to her.’

  He handed Capri the portable receiver and pulled out the chair from behind the desk for her before leaving the room.

  ‘Hello?’ she said tentatively. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Capri!’ a voice screeched into her ear. ‘Darling! Are you all right?’

  Blank surprise held her silent for a moment, until Treena repeated, ‘Capri?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ she said hastily. This was her mother’s voice? She’d expected some shock of recognition, perhaps even a miraculous restoration of memory.

  ‘I’ve been so worried!’

  Numbly she replied, ‘You needn’t be, really. Rolfe just told you, I’m fine, except—’

  ‘Except? Except what? What have you done?’

  ‘Done?’ A faint amusement stirred. As if she’d caused the train crash? ‘I had bruising and a bang on the head—’

  ‘Rolfe told us that!’

  ‘And—um—I’ve lost a large part of my memory.’

  As Capri shifted the phone an inch away from her ear the voice lifted higher. ‘You’ve lost your memory?’

  ‘The doctors say it will almost certainly come back eventually.’

  ‘You don’t remember anything?’

  ‘Some things,’ Capri temporised. ‘I knew Rolfe when I saw him, but I don’t remember our wedding. And… until Rolfe mentioned it I’d forgotten that you’d moved to America.’ And forgotten her mother’s name. Treena. ‘I remembered Venetia, though. How is she?’